


Stopping the Apocalypse and Other Acts of Awesomeness

by bluetoast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cancer, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1333909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cautionary tale of being careful what you wish for - and for some, lines you shouldn't cross.  This story splits from the original tale near the end of chapter four. Written for Hoodie Time (on Live Journal) remix challenge.<br/><b>Original story: </b><a href="http://nong-pradu.livejournal.com/13607.html"> My Father's Favourite</a> Nong Pradu</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean stood in the water just past the depth of his shins, letting the ocean waves crash over the bottom of his legs and feet. It felt wonderful – in Heaven, the water's not cold – it's as warm as a bath. He knows this isn't real and he shoves his hands into the back pockets of his cutoffs. But he has to admit, the plus side of being on this beach where he went with his dad and Sammy before he really got sick – the time he's here now, his arm's not broken. He's not certain if this is the same for everyone in Heaven or it's because he's a kid and hadn't lived all that much yet. He supposes it must be something like one never-ending perfect vacation for all kids – because there's an amusement park he knows wasn't on the beach a couple hundred yards up and back from where he's standing and a line of food vendors where the parking lot should be that have everything – from the basic hot dogs and fries to deep fried Snickers Bars (Dean was starting to get addicted) and there was even one booth where you could get a plate heaped with a traditional Thanksgiving meal. And oddly enough, the one time he tried it, he instantly knew that the stuffing tasted just like his mom's did – which was surprising in that he could remember the taste of something he'd not had in eleven years. That was another great thing about this place – you could eat all you want and never get sick. On the far side of the amusement park is a movie theater with about a hundred screens – and shows just about every movie that was ever made or ever will be made – consequently, he's already seen all three of the _Star Wars_ prequels. Just past that, a library with all the books in the world – both written and unwritten – and even when you pulled one down with a foreign title in a language you didn't know, it automatically changed to one you did. 

Despite this being Heaven, Dean still hadn't made any friends, not good friends, with the other kids he's seen here. Although he did have an awesome time the other day having a snowball fight with some guys from Australia who've never seen the stuff in life and now can't get enough of it. The snow field was a good walk down the road, past the vendors and three baseball diamonds, but since bicycles are lying around like weeds, it really doesn't matter. He was sure they'd feel differently if they'd ever had to drive through a South Dakota blizzard that, had the Impala not been the most bad ass car to ever grace the road, would have killed the entire Winchester family in the winter of eighty-eight. But the other kids here weren't family – they weren't Sam – and you'd think the lack of parental figures would make the place insane, but of course, being Heaven, there was some kind of weird moral/behavioral code that they all seemed to adhere to – it was almost too perfect and for that reason alone, Dean didn't fully like this place. If Sam was here, he might start to like it – but if his little brother was here, he didn't even want to think about what that would do to his dad.

Dean moved back up onto the beach just far enough he could sit in dry sand and still have the water rush over his feet. It wasn't fair. He hadn't died on a hunt, he hadn't died from a hunting injury. What got him killed was a wussy little kid's disease called Leukemia. 

Okay – that was a lie. Leukemia was not a wussy little kid's disease. It was a full on, raging, evil, life sucking monster that had all the wrath and strength of any other form of cancer – and maybe in an adult it was nothing, but this cancer preyed on kids. Kids who, thanks to that thing he'd never get to do called growing up – didn't have fully developed immune systems and even if they fought, and fought and fought as hard as they could with treatments that Dean's convinced by now are as evil as the illness itself, it still kills. It can't even have the decency to kill you quick, like a heart attack or a broken neck. It drags your death out like a shtriga. Hell, Leukemia might just be the bastard child of a shtriga and the flu. 

Dean set his head down on his arms and let the sunshine wash over the back of his neck, his eyes squeezed tight, trying to stop the tears. _There's no crying! There should be no crying in Heaven!_ He let out a shuddering breath and remembered exactly how he'd ended up here.

**  
The PICU had one of the coolest doctors on the planet. Dean had only seen him once or twice, but was of the opinion the guy had to be nothing if not awesome, only because he'd caught the guy humming Metallica under his breath. He'd been moved up here after his lungs nearly collapsed and he caught pneumonia for what felt like the millionth time. At least he's off the vent finally – he'd hated that thing with a vengeance. It's sometime in September and they're holding off round four of chemotherapy until he's a little stronger. His hair is long gone – but has already decided that as soon as he kicks this cancer's ass, he's going to grow it long, seriously full out Shaggy long like those picture's he's seen from the seventies and early eighties. Holly, a girl Sam's age who's on the regular old peds ward told him that when she gets better, she's also going to grow her hair as long as she can get it – even if it gets down to her knees, she's said she won't cut it. That's the other thing he likes about this doctor – he actually seems to give a shit, unlike the other doctors and nurses who avoid the subject of death as if they can't see the twenty-ton elephant sitting in the corner of the ward wearing a huge blanket with the word spelled out in bright gold letters. The awesome doctor's standard statement in regards to death and pain is that 'If you got through yesterday, you can get through today.' Sure, it sounded cheesy and wrong, but hey, Dean has to respect an adult who understands that when you say you're in pain, you're not making it up and yes, it is as bad as you think it is. He's told Dean twice already that some of his colleagues wouldn't know what real pain was if it came up to them and kicked them in stomach. Dean's also convinced the good doc's got friends in high places, because he can make those people from the Make a Wish Foundation show up almost instantly. Dean's refused the request each time a doctor's asked if there's something he wants – a trip to Disney World, to see a Yankee's game (as if Dean would ever support that team) – because what Dean wants is something the man can't provide.

_Find the thing that killed my mom and annihilate it. Then I can die in peace._

“Well, Dean....how are we today?” It's the awesome doctor, his name plate reads _L. Armstrong_ – steps over to his bed and does his usual once over.

“Like shit.” This is his standard reply whenever his dad's not around to hear him. When dad's around, he always answers with 'okay I guess.' 

“I can give you some good news... the pneumonia seems to have cleared up.” Dr. Armstrong gently rubs a swab of alcohol on Dean's arm.

Dean's so used to having blood drawn, he no longer flinches when the doctors get out one of those needles. “What's the weather like out there?”

“Wet. When I moved here, no one told me how often it'd rain around here. Although, I take it over the six feet of snow every time it snows winters.” The doctor gives him a smile. “Your dad called and asked that we tell you he's going to go to work today, just like you told him too.”

He lets out a weak snort. “He needed some time off...”

“If you say so...” He slowly starts the blood draw, the man's brown eyes flick to Dean's green ones for a moment. “The Make a Wish people will be back this afternoon – are you sure there's nothing you'd like to do?” 

Dean knows that only usually the terminal cases are the ones that get what they want and he's at this point pretty sure he can still win the fight. “I don't suppose they've got Doc Brown's Delorian stashed somewhere and they can go to the future and get the cure for this, can they? So everyone in here can go back to being a kid?” 

Dr. Armstrong pulls the syringe away and cleans the small mark again and Dean notes how stricken the man looks. Like he _could_ do something like that, but for some reason _can't._ “I wish they could do that, Dean... I really, _really_ wish they could.” He swallows hard and stands up. “Just between you and me, Dean-o, I'd rather have that happen and be out of a job then to have to come in here day after day for another couple of decades.” He gives that odd mischievous smile again. “You know, they can arrange for you to meet famous people too...though I don't know what some parents would say if we let James Hetfield or Robert Plant in here.”

“I don't think many of the parents would recognize either of them.” Okay, Dr. Armstrong has to be the most incredible doc _ever,_ given he knows who the lead singers of Metallica _and_ Led Zeppelin are. He lets out a tired sigh and tries to smile as he hears a rumble of thunder. “Must be pretty bad out there.”

“Yeah...least there's no hail.” He smiles again and looks over one of the clipboards in the rack over Dean's bed. “I'll come back and see you in a little while.”

“Sure.” Dean slowly turns back over to his side and he can see the calendar on the wall. It's September twenty-third – _September_ – when did it get to be so late in the year? Fall has started and he hadn't known it until now. He knew Sam was back in school, but it was almost October. Strangely enough, he thinks of trick-or-treating and wonders if the hospital does anything special for Halloween. He lets out another breath and closes his eyes. Sleep sounded good right now.

*

Dr. Armstrong left the peds ward with a calm face and a harried step, as if he was trying keep himself from running full tilt out of the place and could only manage to remain passive. Truth was, Dr. Armstrong wasn't a doctor and if it wouldn't raise alarm bells and cause the greatest media frenzy of the century – completely trumping O.J. Simpson's drive last May and Princess Diana's funeral three years from now – the archangel Gabriel would walk straight back into that ward and cure every last kid in the place. From the ones stricken with cancers to the kid who got mangled in a car wreck, they'd all be well in a matter of minutes and sweet Heaven, he wants to see that so badly it hurts. It was so wrong, so very, very wrong to see this. He could march back into Heaven right this minute and beat the ever loving shit out of Michael right now as well. But his brother didn't seem to care – didn't seem to care that his True Vessel was wasting away from an illness he _shouldn't_ have. Spares be damned, Adam Milligan is all of four years old right now and already Michael has abandoned Dean like a dead dog. What Michael should have done is gotten to the bottom of the whole affair and started kicking some ass. But no, not Gabriel's big brother, Mr. Perfect Son – which is a title he doesn't deserve since the douche has lost sight of daddy's Big Picture and only sees _Must Kill Little Brother, Bring About Paradise._ He wouldn't be surprised to find that Michael's behind the way the disease is spreading with a vengeance, because it's certainly not Lucifer or Azazel's doing – the pair of them are good, even with Lucifer locked up, but they're not that good. 

Gabriel knows he can't save Dean Winchester's life.

What Gabriel can do is stop this whole Apocalypse mess, even though it's already got a head start on him.

He'll even tell Dean all of this – because he knows he'll need help once he gets back to Heaven and since his daddy doesn't say anything about anything... well... Gabriel's fairly sure his dad would rather see humans saved than destroyed. Humans were awesome – and while they were seriously flawed, many tried to become better. Besides, any angel who knew their stuff (and had more than a teaspoon's worth of faith) would know that the end of the world will happen when dad says, not when Michael says. 

Gabriel knows what will happen when John Winchester comes to the hospital this time next week and is told that Dean's case has become terminal. The man will go the nearest crossroads and sell his soul for his son's health. After ten standard years, the hell hounds will come and kill him. Dean of course, will be devastated and Sam, well, Sam's already stumbling down his dark path – no, more like walking right into it. During those ten years, a cancer of it's own will burrow into John's heart and he will break in Hell. The end times will begin and the brothers will take their roles in the Apocalypse without question. He will have to watch his brothers kill each other because of one fucking demon tricking an eleven year old boy into asking for something that he had no idea he was asking for. 

First thing he's got on his agenda is to get rid of one very, very nasty demon named Azazel. For that, he's going to need some backup.

*

Heaven hadn't changed much since he'd been gone. Gabriel found he could walk purposefully down any corridor and other angels would stop, turn, stare and then hurry back to whatever they'd been doing when he'd paused to look at them. The scuttlebutt he'd gotten from the cherubs was that most angels thought he was doing some major undercover mission and before to long, they could all take part in a grand slaughter of the pagan pantheons. Let them think that – it'd keep them out of his business and his own private corner of paradise. He doesn't need help killing Azazel, far from it – he needs some help wrapping up lots of other loose ends. When he throws the door of a lecture hall type room open, he nearly laughs at the look the seraph gets on his face when he sees who's standing at the back of 'his' class. 

“I hope this is....” Zachariah's voice dies in his throat as he sees the archangel at the back of the room. “I...uh...”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I just stopped by I need to pick up someone... two someones...” He started scanning the room.

“We're in the middle of a less...” 

“You say that like I'm supposed to care.” He glanced to his left and saw one angel trying very hard to suppress his laughter. “You...” He pointed at the angel. “What's your name again?”

“Balthazar.” He somehow manages to stop giggling for the moment. 

“You come along with me... and bring your friend there who's trying to hide under the table.” Gabriel pivots on his heel and heads back to the door.

“I hope you have....” 

“Zachariah, shut your cake hole.” Gabriel snaps as Balthazar and the other angel head over to him. “You just go back to your little decoupage class or whatever it is you're supposedly teaching...” He strides out with the two lesser angels hurrying to keep up. Once they're outside in the hall, Gabriel glances up the corridors and then moves down the corridor the same way he came from originally. 

“Where are we going, sir?” The unnamed angel asks.

“Somewhere. I'll tell you when we get there.” He stops and turns to him. “Sorry, don't think I've met you...”

“Castiel, sir.” 

“Peachy.” Gabriel looks from one angel to the other. “I know you've been in Michael's brigade since you could lift your wings...” He smiled. “But you're going to be working for me now...don't worry, you're not being demoted to cherub status.” He inclined his head and they started back down the hall.

*

Sam had once longed for quiet alone time – now he had it in mass quantities and didn't want it. When he was alone he'd think about the angel, the yellow-eyed messenger and the possibility he might have given Dean cancer. His dad's adamant about the fact that Dean's not going to die, that the treatment is working and soon it will all be over. It's the end of September and his brother hasn't been home in three weeks. His big brother was supposed to be this tower of unconquerable strength – and now, now Dean was slipping away. He'd lost his hair and his muscle strength, leaving only this bald, bony boy that made Sam think of famine victims he'd seen on television. For the first time in all his memory, Sam sees that just like him, Dean's a kid too. A kid who's _dying._ He's not seen his brother in almost two weeks because of some stupid rule about underage people in the PICU. He's not on the vent anymore – but he's got a few more days until he's stable enough to move out of intensive care and back to the regular peds ward. 

The figures in Sam's math book blur in his vision as he tries to study for the quiz he knows the teacher will be springing on the class on Monday. He couldn't stay in Mathletes if he didn't study and stay on top of his grades. It's the one thing he can control right now and he's going to do his damnedest to hold onto it. He also knows that Pastor Jim will be here tomorrow to look after him. This is both a relief and a worry for Sam. Pastor Jim is sure to know about angels. He was supposed to be here a week ago, but there'd been something odd going on in Blue Earth and he'd had to take care of before leaving – he'd been vague about what it was. “This... isn't working...” He slaps the book shut and shoves it away in his backpack. He's too worn out and too worried to do any more studying tonight. 

For lack of anything better to do, Sam starts cleaning up the tiny apartment. It's not like it's had much chance to get to filthy, but tomorrow is Saturday and that means it'll be laundry day. He doesn't even think about it as he flips on the television to the baseball game – the Boston Red Sox are somehow turning the Kansas City Royals into hash. He sorts the dirty clothes into the three laundry bags – trying not to notice the lack of his older brother's items in the mess of underwear, socks, jeans and shirts. He even makes sure to check the pockets, growing frustrated that the Royals can't get their act together and moves on to cleaning up the kitchen. The fact that he's got to scrub the coffee pot with a scouring pad also lets him know something else: his dad has not made a fresh pot of the stuff in at least a week. 

“Gross.” He looks at the brown gunk on the pad as the front door opens and John comes tiredly into the apartment. 

“Sam?” John looks bewildered at the small space that was a disaster area the last time he saw it. “You been cleaning?”

Sam would like to snap back with a retort, but instead he shrugs. “Couldn't concentrate on anything else.”

“I'm gonna get a shower...” John stumbles exhaustedly towards the small hallway and a few minutes later, Sam can hear the water running. 

He sighs softly, sets the now clean coffee pot in the rack to dry out and looks up at the television just in time to see the Boston faithful on their feet cheering as the final out of the ninth inning is made. They've won, seven to nothing. Sam sighs again and goes back to doing the rest of the dishes, hoping after that disappointment, the Jayhawks can deliver a major smack-down to Kentucky tomorrow. It feels weird, worrying about sports teams and who's going to get their ass kicked – but the guidance counselor at school had been screaming he needed some kind of support and care and other such bullshit... Winchesters don't get therapy. 

Winchesters get tough.

John comes back out of the bathroom and the shower may have washed away the grime, but not the sheer exhaustion. He's to tired to eat, to tired to drink, to tired and worried and worn out to do much of anything. He slumps down on the couch and holds his head in his hands, breathing slowly. 

“You want some dinner dad?” 

“No, thank you.. Sam. Did you eat?”

“I had a sandwich... I wasn't all that hungry.” He rings out the dish-cloth, hangs it over the faucet and goes to sit next to his father on the couch, hating himself. He knows his dad had to work a long shift today – a shift that ended after visiting hours at the hospital were over, so he's not seen Dean today. Sam misses his big brother – and would very much like to lie about his age so he can go see him. But the nurses and doctors all know that Sam Winchester won't be fourteen for almost three years – so there's no chance.

The news has come on and the lead story is about a man who vanished from his home last night. Sam studies the man, who looks to be a little younger than his dad with blond hair that looked half spiky, half shaggy. His wife reported that he'd been acting strangely for a few days, at one point he'd thrust his hand straight into a mass of charcoals in the backyard grill, only to pull it back out completely unmarred. “Dad? Who do you think is crazier... the missing guy or his wife?”

“I'd say it's probably an even split.” John snorted. “Good thing is, if that guy's possessed, some hunter's going to see this report and take care of it.”

“Hope the guy's okay.”

“Any hunter worth his salt knows at least six exorcisms, Sammy.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, preparing for the usual tirade of Sam's against hunting and actually misses it's absence when it doesn't occur. He glances at the three bags. “Tomorrow is laundry day, isn't it?

“We're almost out of socks and underwear, dad.” Sam replied frankly. “Only one who's got clean shorts is Dean, and his are to big for me and to small for you.”

In spite of himself, John lets out a weak snort of laughter. “He probably wouldn't like to come home and find his socks stretched out either, would he?”

“No...” Sam managed a weak smile. “He'll be home... before Halloween, right?”

John smiles a little more certainly and ruffles Sam's hair. “He should be, Sam. He's doing really well. I'll wager he'll be well enough for you to see him by this time next week.”

Sam tries to smile, but ends up yawning instead.

“Go get some rest, Sammy... lot to do tomorrow.”

“Sure, dad.” He got up from the couch and went into the room that he and Dean shared. He's spent a lot of nights staring at the empty bed, wanting Dean to be back in it – to not be in the room anymore. He still hasn't heard from the messenger again – and he'd like to think his prayers are being heard, but... in the end... he doesn't know. He lays down and somehow finds sleep rather quickly. Later he would remember the next five hours as being his last hours of completely perfect sleep. 

At exactly three-twenty in the morning, the jarring ring of the telephone shattered both of their slumbers and brought untold pain with it.

*

Dean had woken up in agony – everything had hurt, from his toes to his head. He didn't think it was possible for your entire body to hurt, but he thought it sort of made sense, since you had a blood everywhere and he did have cancer of the blood. Hell, even the whites of his eyes hurt – that seemed like something that should be impossible – or at least to be a the point you could tell the difference between the pain in the whites and the iris. It's a raging, burning pain that seeps into him and he thinks nothing could deaden the pain. He opened his eyes, just barely, and he can see Dr. Armstrong looking at him with a look that tells him straight away that it's bad. “D..dad?” He's vaguely aware of the chaos around him, other doctors, nurses, all of them pulling and and struggling to keep him where he is, even though he wants to tell them to go away – but the pain and... something else won't let him. Oddly enough, they don't seem to notice Dr. Armstrong, who's crouched down to his level, his face a picture of perfect serenity in the chaos that is currently Dean Winchester's room in in the PICU. 

“He's coming, Dean-o, fast as he can.” He leans a little closer to him and Dean can see the honey color of his eyes clearly – they're wet with unshed tears. “I can't make this right, kid... wish I could, but I tell you what... I'll come and talk to you soon, tell you everything.”

“What are you?” Dean's voice is so low, he's not sure if he spoke or not. 

“I'm an angel.” 

“No such thing...dad says...”

“Your dad doesn't know half as much as he thinks he knows.” Gabriel gives him a reassuring smile. “You and me? We're going to stop the Apocalypse.”

“Dude.” Dean's fairly certain he's dreaming right now because an angel in a lab coat with a Snickers bar sticking out of the front pocket just told him that they were going to save the world. “Next thing you're going to tell me is that there's pie in Heaven.”

“Oh hell yeah...” Gabriel smiled at that. “Any kind you want... any time you want.”

“Dad...” He whimpers again, trying to turn over, find solace, some kind of peace, _something._

“He's coming, Dean. I'll see you in a little bit, okay?”

“Okay...” Dean's concept of time is rapidly slipping away. The pain was starting to abate, but he was pretty sure he'd not been given any drugs. As he blinks rapidly, trying to focus on anything – he thought of the two letters he's got sashed underneath his underwear in a drawer back at home – the ones he wrote back in August, before round three of chemotherapy robbed him of his health. He'd put them in a larger envelope and addressed it to Pastor Jim. Pastor Jim would see to...things. This isn't anyone's fault – people died of cancer every day... 

He felt his head loll to the side and saw someone else standing next to the bed – also unaffected by the fury of the doctors who he can hear shouting things, but it's all indistinct and distant, like a crowd cheering on television. It was a girl about his age with dark hair and eyes. “Wha...”

“Hey Dean.” She smiled. “I'm Tessa.” She held her hand out, smiling wider.

Being this is the first person he's seen other than Dr. Armstrong – the angel – who actually seems to care, he reaches out and clasps her hand - and all the pain ceases.

**

Ten minutes to late. Ten fucking minutes – a stupid train had delayed their arrival and they were to late. Sam feels nothing – he feels the tears on his face and a great pit where is heart should be, but other than that – nothing. He can't look at his father, he can't speak, he can't think of anything but to late. He and dad had gone to bed with plans of laundry tomorrow and the only reason dad hadn't seen Dean yesterday was the fact that Dean had insisted he was going to be fine – and for dad to go to work. There were supposed to be _good byes_ and _last hugs_ and all that stuff... Dean was not supposed to be dead. Dean was going to win the battle, he'd said so with such confidence and swagger, nothing had ever knocked the tower of strength that was Dean Winchester down. Not forever – bones were reset, scraped healed, bruises faded, but not this. At least, not alone...

Sam hugged his legs tighter, his face pressed into his knees as if he could somehow undo all this – the nagging feeling that deep down, this is all his fault. His fault because he was selfish about wanting to stay here and not move, to not hunt – he just wanted to be _normal._ Dean could be _well_ right now, they could be in some shit hole hotel while dad was God knows where and he'd be bitching about moving again and _damn it!!!_

Six months ago, Sam would have given anything to stay in this crappy town. Now he'd give anything to get out of it. The doctors had blabbered some nonsense about how Dean wasn't suffering anymore and how he was at peace. Dad always said that was bullshit.

Sam's starting to believe it. 

John can't look at Sam. He can't even lift his head up – he should have been here, if he'd have been here, Dean wouldn't have let go, Dean would have kept fighting. No, no what happened was the worst possible thing for someone as sick as his eldest to happen had happened. His appendix had ruptured – and that had just finished his boy off. A busted appendix and leukemia – no doubt the line on 'cause of death' on the certificate will read 'septic shock' the way 'smoke inhalation' is stamped on Mary's. The truth dumbed down and made to sound neat, simple and clean. Parents were not supposed to bury their children. 

This pain is worse than it was with Mary. He'd been to shocked, to horrified, to damned scared after Mary died. Now here the Winchester family was, down from three to two – and no idea what the hell to do. They can't stay here, John knows that for damn sure. They can't stay here any more than they could stay in Lawrence. He's so _angry_ right now he could kill something. His son, his oldest who always did the best that he could, took care of his dad, his brother and never tried to cause any trouble in the ranks of family – he saved that for school – was _gone._ He can remember when Dean, all of four years old, proudly told the parents of his classmates in nursery school at a drama night in the March before Sam was born that he was going to be a fireman. That dream had died when Mary died. Oh, maybe his boy could have... but John bites at the ball of his hand when he realizes the demon didn't kill that dream – he did. He robbed his eldest of being a kid and turned him into a surrogate parent for Sammy.

Dean never asked for much... not for birthdays, not for Christmas – and John knew that what Dean liked best was to be with his family and now... now the Winchesters had lost their strength. Dean's devotion to the hunt, to him, to his brother had been downright scary at times. The past few months didn't do anything to make it up to his boy. Dean had been worthy of attention long before he got sick – and what had John given him? Orders. Told him to do it better. Work harder. I _t's not quite good enough Dean... I can't trust..._

John feels the tears starting again and he's not even sure where he and Sam are right now. All he knows is that they're leaving this town – some stuff and nonsense about 'arrangements' and other crap. He's only been vaguely aware of Jim Murphy's presence for.... oh, he's not sure how long... somehow the good pastor has been able to keep it together and John's glad he's kept the religious talk to himself. 

Because John's pretty sure there can't be a God if he let Dean die.

**

Balthazar knew he'd gotten the easier of the two jobs Gabriel had for him and Castiel to do only because he was better at interacting with humans. Here he was, in nineteen-seventy-three in the middle of a humid Kansas summer, leaning against a dusty black car that had more character than Shakespeare could dream up, watching John Winchester look over a Volkswagen Van that was as boring as Tolstoy. He's got no idea why the Impala is so important that Gabriel sent him back here to make sure Winchester bought it instead of that van, but hey – if it was looks alone, no problems there. He looks at John looking over the tan creation like it's a prize and shakes his head. 

“That's not the one you want.” He smiles wider when John looks over at him and the Impala. _This is all to easy..._ He hoped Castiel and Gabriel don't smite _all_ the demons before he gets back to the future.

**

Castiel's task might have been harder than his brother's if only for the trick of not getting caught. He's had a lot thrown at him in the past couple of human days and is holding up surprisingly well. All that stuff Zachariah had been telling his garrison about how they 'had to find out Azazel's plans' and 'stopping the Apocalypse' information? As Gabriel put it: it was a flaming pile of dog shit, whatever that meant. Because his superiors already _knew_ what was going to go down. That's why the True Vessel had died – there was a _back up_ plan that the moment he learned of it, made Castiel want to slug his superiors. 

So here he was, putting a damper on the plan for another couple of centuries. 

It's not disobedience, Gabriel hammered that lesson into him and his brother right off the bat. The plan Heaven was following was Michael's, not God's. It sort of made some sense now, since a lot of angels of Zachariah's caliber seemed as if they couldn't care less about humans and Uriel did a pretty good job at disguising his disgust. Castiel thought the order had been pretty clear – love the humans more than their father. Hard, sure – but it was _supposed_ to be hard. If it was easy, Lucifer would never have fallen in the first place. 

The house in Lawrence was empty, the yard already brown in preparation for the harsh Kansas winter. The 'For Sale' sign seemed forlorn and the gleaming 'Reduced Price' seal only told the story further: no one in their right mind would live in this house and Castiel can't blame them. Humans were so fragile. True, sending an angel to get rid of a poltergeist and releasing a trapped spirit is a little like killing a spider with a sledgehammer, but as Gabriel put it – sometimes a little overkill is a good thing. 

**

Jim Murphy was no stranger to grief. Grief was a part of his work – he saw it every day and in so many levels. But he's fairly certain this is the worst. He tried not to think at how _wrong_ this all was. He was driving John Winchester's Impala back to Blue Earth, with the car's owner riding shotgun and the man's boy sitting sandwiched between them. In the backseat, buckled in place, sat a heavy cardboard box. Jim knew why it was there and not the floor of the car or the trunk. The box contained two items: John Winchester's leather jacket and a small urn. It's been a week since Dean's death and it seems so much longer. They could not stay in Virginia, that much was certain. Jim wouldn't be surprised if John never drove into that state again. The urn containing the ashes of the elder Winchester boy would be buried in Blue Earth, in the small cemetery near Jim's parish. 

News hums from the Impala's speakers, serving no real purpose other than to help keep Jim awake, as he wants to drive straight through – and it's a nearly fourteen hour drive, and this is ninth hour.

_“The search continues in for James Novak, who vanished this past Sunday, following services at the First Baptist Church in Pontiac, Illinois. The man's car was found abandoned at a rest stop near the Missouri-Illinois border. Police are a loss as no sign of foul play seems to be involved. His disappearance closely resembles that of Craig Jackson, from Olympia, Washington who went missing last Thursday...”_

Sam shifts in the seat and Jim notices that the boy is sleeping – and so is John. He's the one who packed up the Winchester's things and found the large manila envelope stuck in the bottom of one of Dean's drawers. He's not told either of the Winchesters about it – it's still to soon, to fresh – he knows that this is a wound that will never heal – it is nothing that can be gotten over, just gotten through. But the boy had asked something of him and he fully intended to do it. He'd only needed to read the sheet of paper once and he had it committed to memory.

_Pastor Jim -_

_If you're reading this, then well, I guess I'm gone. I don't know if all that stuff you used to tell me about Heaven and angels and God loving us all is true or not, cause dad doesn't believe it and he definitely won't after this, but I... I'd like to think I could. I don't know if they let little smart ass blaspheming kids in to Heaven either... but I remember you once reading about how tax collectors and murderers got into Heaven – so there's probably hope._

_I've got a letter in here for Sammy and one for dad – don't let them be in the same room when they read their letters – and don't go letting dad steal Sam's, because it's **his** letter and dad doesn't need to read it. _

_I didn't want to quit fighting, really, I didn't – I wanted to get better, I wanted to be well, I wanted to go back to hunting and I will tell you the great secret (don't worry, I told Sam and dad too, but I put it another way): I don't hunt for vengeance like dad does. Sometimes I think dad hunts the way he does because he somehow thinks it can bring mom back. Having a reaper take up residence in the same room with you makes you think about things like that – not that I've seen a reaper lately (I mean, when I was writing this) but odds are, there's a few hanging out at the hospital._

_I wanted to hunt the evil things in this world so other families don't end up the way ours did. I'd even keep hunting after we killed the thing that killed mom._

_All dad sees is vengeance and all Sam sees is being trapped by dad's drive. I was sort of stuck between a rock and a hard place... It'd have been nice if someone would have stood up for me once in a while – because I hated having to move all the time too – I just couldn't show it – I had to be tough and grow up... no time to stop and think about it. Just do it._

_We were both trapped and I'm worried what will happen to the two of them now that I'm not there to break things up, to keep things smooth – can you do that for me Pastor Jim? I know my dad will probably take off with Sam at some point or go off the deep end or something..._

_But... just be there, you know? I know you've like, been the one sane person in Sam and I's life, even if your religious talk got a little... weird in my head at times._

_If I get to Heaven, I'll see if I can put in a good word for you about the Detroit Lions – though I can't make any promises.  
Thanks for Everything – and I mean EVERYTHING - _

_Dean Joseph Winchester_

_August 2, 1994_

Jim hasn't looked at the other letters – given what his own letter had reduced to him to, he couldn't think what the others would to do Sam and John.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean lifted his head up and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. Shortly after he'd arrived here in Heaven, Gabriel had told him everything. About how Sammy had wanted to live a normal life and how Azazel had tricked his little brother into wishing for something without knowing what he was asking for. His little brother had been used by the demon that had killed their mother and Lucifer. It was enough to make Dean's stomach turn. It only got worse – because another angel, one called Michael, who _should_ have done something about Dean's leukemia, instead let events play out as they did because of some stupid possible future in which Lucifer got free from Hell and Dean had to be a meat puppet for the angel and he'd refused. What _almost_ happened was his dad finding out his case was terminal and selling his soul to save Dean's life. Same thing as before, only this time Dean said yes and four billion people on the face of the earth died.

Learning that horrible truth was the first time Dean was glad he was dead – until he learned the reason Michael had let him die. 

Dean didn't have one little brother, he had two. Dad didn't know about Adam, but after what Gabriel told him about the rest of the plans, Dean was completely on board with anything that particular angel had in mind. Now he was stuck waiting for whatever it was Gabriel had in mind. 

“Dean-o.” 

Dean turned and gave a half wave to Gabriel as he stood up. “Hey.” He looked at the two angels, he assumed that's what they were, standing a few feet behind the archangel. “Who are they?”

“Friends.” Gabriel reached into one of his pockets. “You remember how I told you the trick in all of this was not attracting any attention?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed at his nose again. 

“Well, we're about to enter the phase where that's going to be really, really hard...” He pulled out an old-fashioned key and held it out to Dean. “This the part I need your help with. Take it.” He indicated the key.

Dean took it and turned it over in his hands. “What do you need me to do?”

“You been to the library?” 

“Few times...you need a book or something?”

“No... know where the lower level reading room is?” Gabriel moved closer to him, further way from the other two angels, as if he didn't want to be overheard.

“Yeah, it's the one with all the overstuffed chairs.” He looked down at the key again. “Uh, what's this key to?”

“That's a skeleton key... that will open any door in Heaven.” Gabriel smiled when he saw Dean's eyebrows lift. “In that reading room, there's a door with a blue glass window – no other colors but blue. That door will be unlocked, so that's not going to be a problem. Go through the door, go down the corridor, take the second left...” He paused and closed his eyes, as if he was trying to visualize what he was explaining. “And go down that corridor until you get to another door that has a glass window with a picture of a tree. You'll need the key to unlock it.”

“Okay...” Dean put the key into his front pocket, keeping his full attention on Gabriel.

“There's an angel who's name is Jeremiah, he'll be in that room. Do the first three tasks he asks of you – don't worry, they'll be simple – when he asks for something the _fourth_ time – pay attention...” Here the angel raised a finger to drive the point home. “Tell him that there's a problem in the garden.”

“There's a problem in the garden.” Dean nodded. “He'll know what I'll mean by that?”

“Yes.” Gabriel nodded. “By the way, you can keep the key... I'll even show you how to use it when we're all done.”

“Cool.” He bit the corner of his mouth. “Go now?”

“Yes. You'll get done before we will, so don't worry about that.” He smiled. “Remember what I kept asking you back in the hospital?”

“Yeah... you kept asking me if there was something I wanted.” Dean thought a moment. “I kept saying no.”

“Well, you sort of did ask for something... even if you only thought it.”

Dean bit the corner of his lip again and then his eyes widened. “You're going to go kill it... him, whatever you want to call Azazel...”

“Yup... couple of other demons too... you know, warning shots and why nots...”

He nearly laughed in response. “Is that how you get kicks around here? Killing demons?”

“Oh hell no.” Gabriel clapped Dean on the back. “I get my kicks by giving certain people their just desserts.”

“You have lions devour child abusers or something?” 

“No...” The angel was suddenly trying to repress a grin. “But that's a good idea... I'll have to remember that one...” He waved his arm in the direction of the library. “Get going... I'll see you in a little while.”

“Sure.” Dean replied, turned and started to jog up the beach. He was long out of earshot when Castiel finally walked up to Gabriel.

“Why would Jeremiah care about concerns in the garden, Gabriel? The angel is a prayer clerk.”

“That... is just what he wants you to think he is.” He smirked. “Come on... let's go shake up some trouble.”

**  
Sam's stopped praying. It's been a over a month, maybe even two – and it's still like it happened just yesterday. Snow is already skittering past the windows and piling up, and it's not even December yet. They're at Pastor Jim's, with the look of staying there for some time. Sam doesn't care. He doesn't even want to go back to school at this point... because he can't see the reason in doing it. He could go, but he knew he'd just sit in class and stare at his desk, his books, he won't really be there. So why bother? At least Pastor Jim keeps dad from drinking to much – at least, in front of him. Life has moved on around the Winchester family, but the two of them have remained stagnant and frozen, with no idea how to move forward. Truth be told, the only thing Sam can keep track of is what day of the week it is, and he wouldn't even know that if he didn't note how many masses Pastor Jim goes to in a day. Sam would still like to think it was all a dream, but he knows it isn't. 

“Sammy?” He turned at the knock at his door.

“Yeah?” 

His dad opened the door, looking rather pensive. “Still not sleeping much?”

“No.” He turned away as his dad came into the room and sat down on the bed. “I don't wanna sleep.”

John rubbed his eyes, sighing. “Jim's got something he needs to get to Bobby Singer... and he doesn't want to send it through the mail... I said I'd take it over to Sioux Falls for him, since it's not all that far. Why Bobby won't come over here, I don't know.” 

Sam turned, looking perplexed. “I thought you and Uncle Bobby weren't speaking to each other.”

“We're not.” John leaned over, resting his arms on his knees, his gaze locked on the floor. “I don't even remember why we're not. Probably something really stupid...” He shook his head.

Sam did his very best not to let out a snort of laughter. “Pastor Jim always says Uncle Bobby's bark is way worse than his bite.”

“He's the only person I've ever known who could insult you in ten languages... not counting English...” He let out another sigh. “So I'm going to start out really early in the morning – before you get up. I know it's just a two hour drive, but with the way the weather's going, it might take as many as four. It'll probably take me an entire day to get him to listen to me.”

Sam nodded. “You'll be careful, right?”

“Yeah.” He reached over and ruffled his son's hair. “You need a haircut.”

“I like lookin' scruffy.” He doesn't tell his dad that he needs to shave. 

“Well, a little trim wouldn't hurt.” He sighed and pulled his hand away. “You behave yourself, okay?”

“Sure, dad.” Sam replied, sitting up. There's a million questions he'd like to ask his dad right now. What were they going to do? Was he going to start hunting again? How did they go on from here? All these questions stay silent and unspoken in his throat. “How long are you gonna be gone?”

“Two days at the most... back before you know it.” He looked over at his youngest, now his only, and misses the question he knows the boy has. “I've talked to Jim about it... and we're welcome to stay here as long as we want... but you know how I feel about imposing on people, right?”

“Yes, sir.” He involuntarily straightens his shoulders, turning his focus completely on his dad – not knowing that he is sitting the same way Dean did when he was being given orders from dad. 

John swallows hard – recognizing the stance Sam is in at once. “So I've thought it over... and we're going to stay here until at least Christmas.. hopefully, by then.... I'll be thinking a little clearer... have a better idea what our next step should be.” He let out a deep breath. “Remember back in June when I told you that you're going to have to be patient with me?”

“Uh huh.” Sam has already heard the meaning in his father's words _– we still need to destroy the thing that killed your mother –_ but doesn't remark on it.

“It's going to have to last a little while longer, okay?” 

“Okay, dad.” 

John leaned over and ruffled his son's hair again. “Try and get some sleep if you can.”

“I'll try.” He managed a weak smile. “You need any help?”

“No, no I'm good.” John gave him a one armed hug. “I'll be back soon.”

Sam nodded as his father stood and left the room. Two months ago, he would have thrown his pillow in frustration in his father's wake. Now all he can do is pull the pillow to him and hug it tight. He heard his dad and Pastor Jim talking outside in the hallway and then heard their voices drift away, heading for the kitchen. He sat in the semi-darkness of the room, not wanting to turn and see the empty twin bed near the window. Pastor Jim's and Uncle Bobby's house were the only two places where he'd gotten the bed closest to the door and the only reason he can't move over to that one next to the window now is because he can't help but think Dean's going to appear from the hallway and lay down. Uncurling himself from his own pillow, he went over to the closet, slid back the door and crouched down to open the duffel bag that Pastor Jim tucked away in there. The tears already starting again as he unzips the bag and pulled out a worn blue plaid shirt that was three sizes to big when Dean first picked it out – and the last time he wore it, it was still a size to big. 

Clutching the shirt to him, he turned off the lights, went over to the bed by the window, threw the covers back and crawled under them. Tentatively, almost afraid it won't be there, Sam lifts the shirt to his face and slowly inhales and – _it's there._ That odd smell that was a mixture of gun oil and fresh air scent that always said to him _Dean_. Curled up under the covers of the bed that was always his brother's – he half suspects he might find the scent on the sheets as well, but doesn't want to let go of the shirt to find out, he felt his entire body lurch with a sob. He wants his brother back... just for a minute, just one little moment – to say two things – _good bye_ and _I'm sorry._

*

'Shaking up trouble' in angel speak means a vastly different thing than it does in human terms. The only troublesome thing was, three of the major demons of the Apocalypse - Alistair, Ruby and Lilith – were all in Hell. But no matter, there they would stay – and the moment one of them got topside, Gabriel wouldn't hesitate – they'd be dead before they even got comfortable in a host. Now, having spent the majority of the last two millennium masquerading as Loki had taught Gabriel two things: one, any pagan god will willingly sell out another if it will save their own hide and two, when it comes to any other supernatural creature – they will only stay friends with them for as long as their need suits. Which is exactly why he can get away with just about everything at this point. Only trouble – leave no survivors. 

Castiel had gone after Azazel's son and Balthazar had killed his daughter – and both had remembered to remove the souls of their hosts before smiting them into dust.   
Gabriel almost didn't release the soul of the man Azazel had been possessing – _almost_ – but had decided the man, who once killed someone in cold blood, had suffered enough, being possessed by that vile thing for twenty years.

*

The sounds of the bells from the parish church woke Sam up. Oddly enough, for the first time since May, he actually woke up feeling _good_. Not happy per se, but somehow he felt lighter and strangely rested. He coughed once and sat up, rubbing the grit out of his eyes. He leaned over and pulled the curtain back from the window just enough to look out to see a layer of snow blanketing Pastor Jim's lawn and the churchyard beyond. A snowplow drove by and kicked the snow into drifts that looked to be a few feet high from where he's sitting, but might actually be smaller. “I'll go shovel the walk soon...” The Impala was gone from the drive – and whatever tracks it left are already covered up. He let the curtain fall back and reached for the alarm clock – it was almost eight o'clock. He'd slept for almost seven hours. That's the most he's slept in a while. He put the clock down and that's when he saw the envelope. His heart instantly raced at the handwriting on the front of it – _for Sammy –_ it's Dean's handwriting. His hand shaking, he picked up the slightly heavy envelope, scarcely believing it's real. He turned it over and carefully opened it – not wanting to mar anything. He pulled the two pieces of paper out from inside and unfolded them.

_Sammy -  
First of all, if you don't have a box of tissues or a roll of toilet paper handy right now – go get some, knowing you, you're already blubbering. It's okay, I'll wait. _

Sam snagged the box of tissues that Pastor Jim started leaving in his room and grabbed one before he returned to reading. Classic Dean... still taking care of him.

_Back now? Good. Now, either you've been snooping through my stuff and found this or else – or else I'm not there. I don't need to tell you I want it to be the former, but I'm guessing it's not. Sucks, I know Sammy – I didn't want to go, believe me, I wanted to go on living – it'd have been nice to grow up, fall in love, or at least have one slow dance. Yeah, I'll admit it – and by the way Sam – free advice: the first time you kiss a girl, remember to close your eyes! I kept my eyes open and it was so damn awkward! (It was Shelly Conroy in Brownsville, in case you were wondering – you remember her? The girl with the most amazing blue eyes....)_

Sam paused for a moment and thought – Dean had always said Shelly Conroy was an airhead. Perfect cover, he guessed. He sniffled and went back to reading.

_I'm going to guess you're at Pastor Jim's when you're reading this, which means you and dad got the hell out of Meridian – good. That town sucked – well, not as much as Broken Bow did, but it was pretty close. I suppose you're thinking this is where I'm going to tell you to grow up and get tough and shit... well, I'm not._

Sam had to read that sentence twice, because that was exactly what he was expecting. He sniffled again. 

_Yeah, I know I've given you crap about it for a while now – since you found out what dad really did and I'm sorry for that. I didn't ever really want to tell you what dad did – I was hoping he'd kill the thing that killed mom before you had to know and so you never would. Dad's drug the two of us from one end of the country and back again more times than I can remember... I just remember we'd been in all of the lower forty-eight states by the time I was your age – and I've not complained once. At least, not out loud. Sam, I've agreed with you in my head plenty of times when you've wanted to stay somewhere. I just never said anything because I knew it was a pointless argument. What dad's after is bad, Sam. Real bad... that's why dad moves us around – not only so he can find it - but so it can't find us. Well, easily at least. So try not to give dad to hard of a time if he starts doing it again. He's doing the best he knows how to do, which is all any of us can do. So, another bit of advice: if he tells you to grow up, tell him you're trying the best you can, but it's a lot harder than he remembers. If he gives you hell for that, tell him I told you to say it._

_What's he going to do, ground me?_

_Okay, that was a poor attempt at humor..._

Sam didn't think so... he can actually hear his brother's voice in those words.

_Enough humor though, cause now I've got a few more things to tell you. If dad does start moving again, when you stop and he asks you to set things up – you know the typical unpacking thing – you gotta remember to hide the liquor – cause if you don't, he'll just drink everything and then get mad when he's out of booze. It's not hard – just put it with the cleaning supplies under the sink. Trust me – he will never look there. Always check the salt lines before going to bed – and even if you think a line might be a little thin: add more salt. You can never have too thick of a salt line. Expect dad to piss people off. He could write a book on it. I don't know if dad doesn't know when he's being rude or what, but yeah... best thing to do: just keep your mouth shut and try to remember what I said about the doing the best you can._

_And now that we're all nice and chick-flicky, I will impart unto you my deepest secret:_

_I'm not hunting for dad._

Sam's really glad he's sitting down, because he's positive he would have hit the floor if he'd been standing. Dean idolized their father more than was probably healthy and if the handwriting wasn't his brother's to a t, Sam would have thought someone else had written it. Dean? He'd been so addicted to hunting it was scary... but not for dad? For what then?

_We know what pain is like, Sam. Real, horrible pain – the way it eats at us and makes our lives miserable... these things we go after, Sam – they cause that pain. They devour, they kill – they make innocent people feel like us. No one should have to feel this way – and that's why I wanted to hunt: so other people – yes, total strangers – don't end up like us._

_Think of it this way Sammy:_

_You're standing alone outside a burning house and the fire department is still ten minutes away. Through the door that's fallen out, you can see a person lying on the floor. Someone who won't be alive for the firemen to pull out when they get there and if you go in, you'll end up with burn scars on your arms, probably your face too... but you can save the person's life._

_So what do you do, Sammy? Do you stand and watch the house burn and spend the rest of your life looking at unblemished skin and knowing you could have saved a life, or live with the scars and knowing that you **did** save a life? _

_Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up?_

_I wanted to see the Grand Canyon too._

_Little more serious talk here: If dad kills the monster that killed mom and decides to return to 'normal' living and somehow by some really, really weird twist of fate falls in love with some woman and you suddenly find yourself being a big brother? I can guarantee you it's a lot better gig than you think it is._

_Just remember what I've taught you – and what dad teaches you._

_With lots of love from your big brother -_

_Dean_

_P.S. - Would you give dad a hug for me from time to time? I'm taking a couple thousand of them with me for you and dad each to give to mom when I see her._

Sam set the letter back on the bedside table, grabbed the pillow and started to weep.

**

John arrived in Sioux Falls sometime before noon. His grasp on time had more or less gone out the window in September and now the day fell in to several areas of time: time to eat, time to think about Dean, time to think about Mary, time to think about Dean _and_ Mary, time to worry about Sam and if any of the twenty-four hours of the day were left, they were for sleep. His plan was to drop off the package for Bobby and turn right back around for Blue Earth, probably after gassing up the Impala and getting some seriously strong coffee. Deep down, he knew he couldn't continue on like this – it would not do anyone any good if he didn't get things back into some kind of order and get moving again. He hated himself for even _thinking_ about moving with Dean gone – his right hand man and go-to for anything companion... but it _had_ to be done. A tiny part of him has told himself that this would be easier if Dean had died on a hunt, if he'd died of something John could go and kill after it'd killed his boy. 

But a monster that he couldn't grasp and strangle, salt and burn had gotten his boy. Sam didn't know it, but shortly after Dean first got his diagnosis, John had poured over medical books and found the only drop of relief in the ordeal – it _wasn't_ genetic so the chance of Sam also getting leukemia were next to impossible. John's not to sure how long he sat in the Impala, staring at Bobby's house before he got outside into the brisk November air and light snow flurry that left flakes clinging to his jacket and hair as he headed to the trunk. He's fully expecting a round of buckshot or something from the other hunter as he took the long box containing a weapon of sort – he's guessing it's a saber or something, as the box is to short to be a sword – and, after slamming the lid of the trunk down, headed up the house. He only had to knock once on the door before it was opened. “Bobby.” 

“John.” Bobby Singer stepped aside to let the man into his house. He's never seen John Winchester alone – he's used to seeing the man trailed by his oldest, sometimes so close you'd have thought Dean was his shadow – and in Dean's shadow – was Sam. But now all Bobby sees is a man who's had the great misfortune to have his life shattered twice in a lifetime. “Made good time.”

“Storm wasn't so bad.” John replied, following Bobby into his library.

“You want some coffee?” Bobby went into his kitchen and returned with the unasked for cup. “I ain't gonna shoot you, John...” He shook his head as he took the box from him and handed him the mug. “I don't even remember what it was I was so pissed at you about...”

John took a long sip of coffee, frowning. “Me neither...” He shook his head. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem.” Bobby set the box down on his desk. “How's Sam?”

“Quiet.” He took another drink. “Used to be he wouldn't shut up... now I wish he'd talk more.”

“And how are you doing?” There was concern in the older hunter's voice.

“I don't know...” He cursed silently in his mind as he rubbed a tear off his face. “I feel like I'm just going through motions... I just... I just don't know.”

“You want to have a seat?” 

“No...it's probably better if I stand a while...” He took another drink from his mug.

Bobby nodded and turned back to the papers on his desk. “I don't know if this is the time to bring this up... Jim' not mentioned anything about what's been happening, has he?”

“What do you mean?” John gave him a confused look.

“It all started about a week after... after Dean passed away...” He started moving the papers around on his desk. 

“What started?” John moved closer to him.

“It wasn't obvious at first... most of this I got from the guys at the Roadhouse... but a lot of monsters, really bad ones... they're showing up dead... I mean even ones we only had slight leads on....” He pushed a clipping towards John. “Whatever is doing this, it isn't human... Caleb found a shtriga _impaled_ in the woods while tracking a werewolf...”

“That's impossible... you can only kill those with consecrated iron rounds when they're feeding...”

“I told you this was crazy... I don't even know if all of these are connected... last thing that was probably a part of this were two ghouls in some town in Minnesota called Windom, that's about forty-five minutes from Blue Earth.” He glanced up and saw a stunned look on John's face. “John?”

“I've got to go...” He set the mug down and started for the door.

“Go?” Bobby was almost on his heels when the younger hunter just jumped down the porch stairs and headed for his car. “What the hell's in Windom, John?”

“I gotta check on something.” He slammed the door shut and started up the car, that wretched, panicky feeling starting to bubble back up in his stomach. The thing that killed Mary might be powerful enough to do the things Bobby was talking about – and how the fuck the demon found out about his trip to Windom, he would have liked to have known. He was already across the state line and heading north before he rationalized that it _had_ to be the thing that killed Mary. There wasn't something in Windom he had to check on – it was _someone._ Someone he'd not thought about in four years but the minute Bobby had said the name of the town, he did: Kate Milligan.

**

Dean was starting to think that this corridor was endless – and, given that it's Heaven, wouldn't be surprised if it was. He'd seen about a million different doors, but none with a glass tree in it, like Gabriel had described. He'd seen full glass doors and full wood ones, some with carvings, some plain – and there were even _more_ corridors that he'd crossed filled with even more doors. At least the walls weren't a stark white or anything – that'd make it seem to hospital like. No, the walls were a soft brown color and the lights – wherever they were hidden, weren't harsh, but cast a warm glow into the hallways. Finally, after what felt like hours, Dean came to a plain wooden door with a large glass tree set into it. “I hope this Jeremiah can tell me of a shortcut to get back to the library...” He fished the key out of his pocket and set it in the lock. With a small grunt of exertion, he heard the lock click and he pushed the door open. He'd no sooner pulled the key back out and stepped into the room when a tired voice snapped at him.

_“Close the door!”_

“Sorry...” Dean quickly shut it and for good measure, locked it again as well. The room was so jammed with scrolls, notebooks and folios it made Uncle Bobby's house look neat. The shelves went clear to the ceiling, which he could see was way up there – maybe twenty or thirty feet, it was hard to tell since due to the sheer volume of books and scrolls.

“Get over here, please.” The voice said again and Dean followed the direction it seemed to come from until he rounded a large cabinet stuffed with bound journals to see a man sitting at a large desk. He didn't look much like an angel to Dean, but then again, neither had Gabriel when he'd first met him. Jeremiah had the sort of appearance you'd expect to find on some cops and robbers television show as the public defender. “Would you pick up that paperweight for me? The one on the floor?”

Dean looked down and saw a large brass bullfrog lying legs up near the edge of the rug the desk was standing on – he also saw even _more_ documents scattered around on the floor that gave the impression it snowed paper in this room . “Sure.” He picked it up and was about to set it down on the desk – when he paused and ran a mental count through his head – _three easy tasks: close the door, come over here, pick up the paperweight -_

“Put it there...” The angel waved to a pile perched precariously on the corner and Dean noted that when the angel waved his hand in that direction, the frog would be back on the floor in a matter of minutes. 

He was about to put it down and then stopped. _That's the fourth thing he's asked me to do_ \- “Uh, there's trouble in the garden.”

“What?” The angel didn't look up. 

Dean pulled the frog away from the desk and spoke again. “There's trouble in the garden.”

This time, the angel put down his pen and rubbed his eyes. “Do you know what the problem would be if you ruled the world, Dean Winchester?”

“Uh.... I'm guessing you'd have to run it?” He still wasn't sure what Jeremiah was going to do.. just from where he was standing, the angel looked to be the same height as Gabriel and about as threatening as a golden retriever. 

“Exactly.” He stood up. “I guess we better get going then.”

“Okay...” He looked down at the frog. “You still want me to put this down?”

“Please...” Jeremiah waved hand over the desk. “Anywhere is fine, it just will end up on the floor again no matter where it is.”

Dean set the paperweight down in the center of the desk and suddenly had the song by Three Dog Night stuck in his head. “How far away is the....” He stopped talking as the crowded office vanished and he found himself standing in what looked like Yellowstone National Park – complete with that huge field of wildflowers he vaguely remembers chasing Sammy through when he was eight or nine. But what he was seeing and what Jeremiah must be seeing were apparently vastly different things – because after the angel had him sit down on a bench made from a log to wait, he walked right through a tree. “Okay that was....” A fraction of a second later, a loud, angry voice seemed to fill the entire garden.

_“Michael!!!”_

Dean cowered down on the bench, bracing for the reply from the archangel when the voice shouted again. He knew the tone all to well – the 'get over here right now because you are such deep shit you shouldn't even think about trying to talk yourself out of it' sort of yell. 

_“Raphael!!!”_

“Don't be afraid...” A new voice spoke to Dean and pulled him back upright. “It's not you he's mad at.” 

Dean looked over at the man, a very benign looking black man who made him think of Pastor Jim. 

“Who are you?”

“I'm Joshua.” The angel smiled. “The gardener.” 

**

Pastor Jim was never surprised that the numbers of people who came to confession sharply increased right before Advent and right before Easter. When he slid the screen in the confessional back he was more focused on the fact that tomorrow was Thanksgiving – and he had no idea what he was going to tell Sam if his dad didn't arrive back in time. He already knew from Bobby that the man had taken off to another part of Minnesota and he was worried that John might have just snapped. “Yes, my child?” He can see a man in his peripheral vision – he's younger than he is.

“I don't know if you can help me or not... the problem I've got...” The man let out a long sigh. “It's fairly huge...I've... I've got these three brothers... they're older than me... and all they do is fight. I mean, they didn't always, but as they got older, it got worse and worse. The oldest two would gang up on the one closest to me in age, then two of them would gang up on the oldest and sometimes all three of them would gang up on me.”

“I take it you chose not to fight.”

“No... I hate it... I... brothers shouldn't fight, not like they do.” 

“Then you might be the one who knew how to grow up.” Jim pulls a Kleenex from his pocket and wipes at his face. 

“Well, sort of... the second oldest... he did something that made our dad really, really, really angry – and he made my oldest brother lock him up...”

“Prison of some fashion?”

“Something like that. But dad said eventually they'd have to have their fight... well, maybe... but I don't think they heard the possibly in the sentence. The a little while later, dad took off... I was the only one who knew where he went.. me and this other family member. I'd already taken off from home because my other two brothers were bickering and I... I was just so _sick_ of seeing them fight... brothers aren't suppose to act that way....” He took a deep breath. “So my brother... the second one, he decided he wanted to have the fight sooner rather than later, so he started working on a way to get out of his prison... he had this guy... helping him. So this guy, he and my brother... decided to trick an eleven year old kid into asking for something he didn't know he was asking for.”

Jim felt his blood turn cold and he suddenly has the feeling that whoever is in the booth with him isn't entirely human. He swallowed hard before replying. “And what did you think of this?”

“I found out about it and I was pissed. See, the original plan I didn't have a problem with, it was the new one... cause a lot of people were going to die.. and then...” The man suddenly let out a sharp sob. “Then my oldest brother went and made what our other brother did _worse_ because he knew I was hanging around... he wanted to see if I'd fix the problem and let things go as they should... with the second plan...” Another sob. “And then I found out there was a _third_ plan...”

“I do hate to interrupt you child... but I'm afraid I am quite at a loss as to what you are telling me.”

“Then I shall put it you very plainly, James Murphy.” The voice dropped it's wavering tone and became steady... it was almost _authoritative_ in nature. “I had to let Dean Winchester die so the two of us could stop the Apocalypse.”

“You _what_?” Jim had his hand on the door of the confessional and was ready to burst out of the small booth when the door opened on it's own and he saw the man now standing outside, looking in at him. “What... what are you?” 

“I'm sure if I just tell you my name, you can figure it out.” Gabriel straightened up slightly and in the lights of the church suddenly blazed on full and when he shrugged his shoulders, Jim was awestruck at what was projected on the far wall, reaching to both sides and up to the ceiling. The shadow of a simply enormous pair of wings. When his gaze flicked towards the door, he saw two more men standing there... completely unaffected by the sight... and then he saw that they too, had wings. 

“They call me Gabriel.” 

**  
In spite of the weather, John made it to Windom in exactly an hour and a half. He'd been going pretty fast down the interstate when he realized he was going almost eighty when, given the snow, he should be going no faster than sixty. It was two in the afternoon, so he knew Kate's probably home from work, unless she switched to the day shift at the ER, but he didn't think that's very likely. She'd told him it was a lot easier to handle people who mangled themselves in bar fights and car wrecks than to see the people who'd 'run into doorways' or 'fell down the stairs.' He spent two weeks in Windom five years ago this coming January, chasing a ghoul and had gotten to know her a little better than he'd wanted to... well, maybe not more than he wanted, but certainly more than he had planned. He didn't tell Kate about about Dean or Sam and in regards to Mary, all he had told her was that he was a widower. And like another local of the city, Joe Barden, she knew more or less what his job really was. 

The first thing that threw him is the snowman standing in her yard. John wanted to shrug it off – figuring she's got company – but the only car parked in the driveway is the same Grand Am Kate was driving back when they met. He parked the Impala on the curb and made his way up the driveway and front walk, rather half relieved to find a copious amount of rock salt ice melt on both. He took a deep breath before ringing the bell, still not entirely sure why he felt the need to check on her. If the ghouls were dead – then she shouldn't be in any harm. _Right_. He was just about to turn and leave when he finally saw movement behind the glass and a moment later the door opened. 

Kate Milligan stared in absolute shock at the man standing on her doorstep – here was the last person she ever expected to see again in her life. Not that she was objecting to him being there. “John.”

“Hey Kate.” He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “I was just passing by town and... I thought I'd stop, see how you were doing.”

She smiled a little more certainly. “Would you like to come in?”

“Uh... thanks.” He remembered to stomp the snow from his boots before he stepped inside and Kate shut the door. 

“You want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“Sounds good, thank you.” There was something rather off-putting in her behavior, he could tell that she's probably just as nervous as he is. 

“We were just making pies for tomorrow...” 

“What's tomorrow?” 

“Thanksgiving.” Kate gave him an odd look. “You do know that tomorrow's Thanksgiving, don't you?”

“To tell you the truth Kate, I'm lucky if I can remember what day of the week it is lately.” He followed her into the kitchen.

“How's the pumpkin coming, Adam?” 

John turned in the direction of the person she's addressing, expecting to find a boyfriend, a coworker, something – and instead finds himself facing a little boy who can't be any older than four years old. 

“It's still lumpy, mommy.” Adam stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he starts shoving a potato masher into a bowl of mix.

“You don't have to get all the lumps out, just most of them.” She replied with a smile and then turned to hand John a mug of coffee. “Adam, this is my friend John Winchester, can you say hello?” Kate's no idiot, she's fairly certain that John's already doing the mental math and figuring out where Adam came from.

The boy looked up at John, smiling, revealing dimples in both cheeks. “Hello, Mr. Winchester.” He then went right back to work on the mixture.

“Can you believe he forgot tomorrow is Thanksgiving? And here I thought I was working to hard.” The lightness in Kate's tone abruptly vanished when she saw the look in John's eyes. She's seen that look before – not from him – she's seen it at work more times than she cares to remember. The look of unimaginable loss. “Uh... sweetie?” She leaned over and took the bowl from Adam. “Why don't you let me finish that up and you take a break, okay?”

“Okay mom..” He climbed down from the chair he'd been kneeling on. “Can I go watch Ninja Turtles?”

“Go ahead, just don't turn it up to loud.”

“'K mom.”

John sank down into the now unoccupied chair, completely overwhelmed. He took a shaky sip of coffee as he heard Kate sit down at the table next to him. 

“Sorry about that...” She took a drink from her own mug. “I uh... friend?”

John set the mug down and found the tears already pricking the corners of his eyes as he bit at the tip of his thumb. “Best friend.”

“Oh god, I'm so sorry... how... how long had you known him?” She set a hand on his arm, unsure of what else to do.

“Exactly fifteen years and nine months...” John's dangerously close to breaking down again and might just do it here in her kitchen. “Since the minute the doctors put him in my arms and said congratulations Mr. Winchester, it's a boy...”


	3. Chapter 3

The way Pastor Jim had once talked about Heaven and how Heaven actually was weren't entirely different – there wasn't any sorrow, you could eat (but you were never hungry) – and you couldn't feel pain. What you could be was nervous – which Dean found kind of odd, but given that he's not seen his mom in eleven years, it sort of makes sense... she also didn't know that he was coming. Adult Heaven was different than his. Other people lived through their greatest memories over and over again – or were in their favorite places over and over. Dean didn't think that sounded too bad – but he likes where he is just fine. He's back in the corridor with all the doors again, only now he's got a new destination to go to – and after turning the key in a door with a single glass panel, he pushes it open to find a small circular room that's almost completely covered with doors, their jambs almost touching – although he noted that there were five gaps in the pattern – doors yet unformed, he figured. _Sammy, dad, Uncle Bobby, Pastor Jim and..._ Not wanting to ponder this any further, he went over to door on his intimidate right and put the key into the lock. He heard the click of the bolt and pushed the door open before putting the key back into his pocket and stepped into his mom's Heaven.

It's a hallway he recognized almost at once. _It's home_ – the house in Lawrence. The air was pungent with the scent of onion and something Dean couldn't place and as he made his way towards the voices he can hear at the far end of the house, where the kitchen was. 

“He's a mess.” _Dad?_

“Well, you can either do the dishes or give your son a bath, it's your choice John... you're the one who gave him that piece of pie.” 

Dean peered around the door-frame, rather confused at what he saw. Sitting at the kitchen table is his mom (looking far younger than he remembered her), his dad (with no beard) – and _himself_ – a very young version of him – probably not even two years old... and completely covered in mashed potatoes and what looks like apple pie. It's _everywhere_ – even in his hair. His mom liked this? He was a frickin' mess! He once spent half an hour getting Sam cleaned up after making mud pies and he wasn't as filthy as he was right now... He bit his lip and leaned a little closer into the room. “Mom?” 

Mary Winchester paused, not certain if she's heard someone speak or not. She didn't remember this part... this is different. It's Heaven yes, but the voice saying mom wasn't a part of this memory.

“Mom?” Dean said again, a little louder and a lot more nervous. _I should just go..._

Mary slowly turned away from John who'd just agreed to do the do dishes in lieu of giving Dean a bath and looked towards the door into the hallway. Standing there is a boy of about fifteen with a scruffy appearance – his hair needs cutting and his clothes – well, boys were boys... then she stood up, not sure if she wanted to believe what she was seeing. She moved towards the boy and when she was still a few feet away – she could see who it was. In the dusting of the freckles on his nose and cheeks and those brilliantly green eyes. “Dean?” She closed the distance between them and put a hand on his cheek, if only to verify this wasn't some new thing Heaven was doing. 

“Yeah...it's... it's me mom...” He felt the tears start. _Again with the crying?_ A second later he found himself caught in the most bone crushing hug he's had since he got that diagnosis back in May. To his knowledge, his mom didn't give bear hugs – but what else can he do? He returned it.

Mary is nearly in tears herself as she embraced her boy, her face pressed into the soft mass of hair on his head – he's almost her height exactly – and he's still in that coltish stage all boys seemed to hit at twelve and stay in until they're sixteen. “How.... what...” She pulled away and took his face in his hands. 

“Dad and Sammy aren't here... they're... they're still alive.” Dean straightened his shoulders, automatically finding himself back into soldier mode and something in his mom's face changed. “I... uh...”

Mary took a shaky breath and then ushered her son into the family room – toy cars and blocks are scattered everywhere. “They don't exactly issue memos around here for when loved ones die... I'm still not entirely sure how Heaven works.”

“I don't think that's something you can tell a person easily...” The two of them sat down on the couch and Mary started to fuss with his hair, looking perplexed at it's refusal to stay put. “I mean, I know that adults get their own private Heavens, but it's different for kids... I'm still not sure where the really little kids go – and I can't imagine where the babies are.”

“I maintain the belief that's where the angels get new angels from – or something.” She looked him over again, frowning. “You needed a haircut.... don't tell me your father forgot to do that...”

Dean let his shoulders droop. “Mom, I had leukemia.. I didn't have any hair when I died.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “So can you really blame me?”

“No...” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “Though you do look a little ragged.”

“I sort of like it.” He felt his cheeks turn pink. “I've had around twenty other kids tell me I look like the perfect Huck Finn. Except I probably have better teeth...”

Mary laughed at that. “You know, I never read that book... I only read _Tom Sawyer_.” 

“I can probably bring you a copy or somethin'...” He shrugged. “I'm sorry I was a such a mess back there.”

She frowned and then looked back towards the kitchen. “Are you apologizing for _that_ Dean? I assure you, cleaning you up after that dinner was not a problem. Unfortunately, you missed the part right after your father agreed to do the dishes where I told him that the dishwasher was broken.”

In response, Dean laughed.

**

Pastor Jim and Sam sat at the kitchen table, neither of them speaking. Sam had walked into the church after finishing shoveling off the walkways to ask if there was any ice melt in the storage room and had seen the three angels in the sanctuary. Or rather, the three men who were, according to Pastor Jim, avatars for the angels. One of them, the shortest of the three, had even been an archangel. The archangel had been talking to Pastor Jim and only one of the others had spoken to him, telling him that what happened wasn't his fault. Sam _might_ have accepted that – but the horrible thing was, now Pastor Jim knew about the wish he'd made. 

“You didn't know, Samuel.” Jim Murphy was still in a state of shock after this morning's events. “You are not to blame for what happened to Dean.”

“But I'm... I'm like an accessory to it...”

“No.” He shook his head. “Your innocence was preyed upon – the demon who tricked you is to blame – and, I believe Lucifer.”

“I shouldn't have wanted to live a normal life. Dean was right. Normal sucks.” Sam hugged himself, feeling sick.

Jim didn't say anything in regards to language. “I am not certain of a lot of details of what exactly would have happened had your brother lived, but I believe in addition stopping the Apocalypse, your brother has also saved you and your father's souls.”

“What do you mean?” Sam was confused.

“I do not believe your father could have resisted the temptation to make a deal if he had known that Dean's case was terminal.” He let out a breath. “And given what you merely gleaned at by talking with Azazel, it could have grown far worse – I do believe the demon would have worked out a way to get both your souls.”

“Dean would have _hated_ us for that...” Sam let out a choking sob. 

“Yes.” Jim wrapped his hands around the mug of hot chocolate he'd been drinking and let out a deep breath. “You and your brother would have grown to hate each other.”

“You're going to have to tell dad about this aren't you?” He huddled over, curling into a ball. “He'll never forgive me...”

“You didn't know, Sam.” He took a drink from his mug. “I know that sounds like a very poor excuse, but it is true.”

Sam glowered at his own mug. “I don't even know why they'd want to hurt Dean... Dean was... he was a lot better person than I am... sure, he got in trouble at school all the time and I often thought he was an idiot... and he told me... in that letter... that he wanted to hunt so other families don't end up like ours. Dad didn't teach him that... I don't know _who_ taught him that...”

“I believe your brother acted the way he did externally because he didn't want anyone to know how he really was on the inside. Most people don't think the way Dean did.... and I believe he taught himself to think the way he did. And you are a good person, Sam. Don't ever let yourself think otherwise.” A low rumble of a motor approaching caused him to pause and turn. “And I'm not going to tell your father about what happened.”

“You're not? Sam was dumbfounded. “But....”

“Your father barely believes in God. I do not think he will believe me or you if we tell him we talked to angels.”

Sam knew the pastor has a point. “He'll find out eventually.” He flinched as he heard the front door of the Impala groan as it was opened and then shut. “He'll be so pissed....”

“Perhaps he will, perhaps he won't... maybe, by then – he will understand and so will you.” He stood and picked up Sam's mug. “Do you want more?”

“No, no thank you, Pastor Jim...” He uncurled himself from the chair as there was a sharp knock on the door and he went to go let his father inside. 

**

John's day had been far to eventful for him to want to do anything other than go straight to bed when he got to Pastor Jim's house. He'd had a good cry at Kate Milligan's house... probably worse than he would have liked. He'd told her a lot of things he'd not told anyone in a long time – about Dean, about Sammy – and just about himself. Kate had confirmed the suspicion he'd had the moment he'd laid eyes on Adam. He was the boy's father. There was something killing monsters – monsters _he_ should have taken care of... the ghouls, for starters. He had no way of proving that the shtriga that was impaled in the woods is the same one that he faced a few years ago, but the things were rare enough it was highly possible. He hadn't spent the entire afternoon at Kate's – he'd left before dinner, politely refusing her offer to stay the night – and it'd been hard to do so, but he knew where he was needed and wanted to be. He had wanted to be in Blue Earth – and just nine hours away from Sam had let him know that he really didn't want to be far from him again for a long while. 

Even if they spent time arguing.

But now that he was back at Jim's, he didn't feel much like sleeping – he was back to where he was this time last night before agreed to take the package to Bobby's – he had no idea what he wanted to do. He'd laid in bed for a few hours, listening to Sam and Jim washing dishes and then heard the shower running and lastly, heard the two of them go into their respective rooms for the night. He was rather proud of himself for not getting up at any point for alcohol and was staving off the burning desire to get drunk. He lost track of how many of the nights between now and the twenty-third of September he's passed out sometime before Halloween. 

John gave up on sleeping and sat up, flicking the lamp on the bedside table on. Having something new to protect, that being both Kate and Adam, changed things greatly. The thing that killed Mary is still out there. It could come after them and he'd have to cut contact off with them to protect them if he had to – and the pain of doing that was a deep ache in his stomach – one that made him just want to tear his hair out, wondering when the pain is going to _stop._ He picked up his journal from the table where he put it and pulled back the binding strap. He flicked over the pages until he came to the first fresh page and the last entry he wrote _– Dean Joseph Winchester January 24, 1979 – September 24, 1994 –_ and there, curiously is a slim white envelope. Sam couldn't have put it there, he's not let the kid be alone with the journal since the time he found out the kid was reading it behind his back when he was eight. Which leaves Jim. He figures it's a letter full of the words he's been expecting about loss and grief and all that religious talk John hates. But he flicked the letter over to check for his friend's handwriting and nearly faints. The handwriting on the front is Dean's. His hand shook as he gently tugged the seal open and pulled out a several yellow sheets of paper and began to read.

_Dad -_

_I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry I couldn't do it. You told me it was the fight of my life and I told you I could win and I couldn't do it. I'm sorry I fucked it up. I just couldn't do it dad, I wanted to do it, I didn't want to let you down and now I've done it. I know you needed my help and I just... I didn't quit dad, please believe me when I tell you I didn't quit. In the end, the cancer was stronger than me – it was stronger and it got me. I wrote this letter hoping you'd never have to read it and now you are – and I hope you can forgive me._

_I'm sorry for a lot of things dad – I'm sorry for not letting you be the one to tell Sammy about hunting, but he'd been reading your journal and I didn't want to tell him, but... well, I'm sorry. I should have kept up the lie or something... or I should have done as you requested and let him know sooner. I still think he was to young to know at eight, but what can I say other than I fucked up? It wasn't the first time or the last -_

_I'm sorry for not watching that time when you were hunting that shtriga that nearly got Sammy. I shouldn't have left him alone. You were counting on me and I let you down. I'm sorry that you had to lose trust in me and I tried so hard to get it back and I knew I'd never get it back completely. I know that because of the way you've looked at me ever since. You don't look at Sam that way – you trust him and you didn't trust me. I'm sorry for not picking things up fast enough, for not being ready to get into the hunt sooner –_

_Sometimes I feel like that's all I've done – I've continually let you down and now I've done the biggest of them all and died. You put your trust in me to get better and I didn't do it._

John could scream – he's only a page into a four page letter and all his boy has done is apologize for things he couldn't control. 

_I wanted you to trust me again dad. To love me the way you love Sammy. That's why I never voiced my objection to moving time after time. I knew it was important so I just sucked it up like you wanted me to and went onward. There I am, disappointing you again. You wanted me to be tough and not complain, so I didn't complain and I made myself get tough. Well, so I thought..._

_The first time you left me and Sam alone I was seven – you told me to not leave the motel room and to watch out for Sammy. Who was supposed to look after me? Didn't I need looking after still at the age of seven? Or did I just somehow not need watching? What did I do that made me so unworthy of the love you gave to Sam no matter what and I had to earn your love the way I had to earn your respect? What did I have to do to get that kind of love, dad? You don't know how many times I've wondered if you've have rather I died in the fire that killed mom instead of her. Don't tell me I'm imagining things, cause I remember you got really mad at me over something and left for a few days that last summer. I see how things are dad... I'm not as stupid as Sammy thinks I am. I know how it works. Sam, you love Sam. Me? I was an obedient soldier hoping for some kind of acknowledgement. I saw the difference right away once you started training Sam for the hunt. He gets patience and second chances – I got more drills and lectures._

_I needed love just as much as Sam and it's not fucking fair I had to catch a terminal illness just to get the fucking attention I've needed as much as Sam since I was four!_

John felt sick – his gut is wrenched in pain as he stares at the words on the second page that he wants to scream at, scream in total denial of any of it. He did love Dean – hell, he loved both of his boys more than anything – but he also sees the truth. He'd been harder on his eldest than he should have been – he kept pushing and Dean, being Dean, put up with it. But all that time, all that time he was suffering in silence – because Dean thought that's what he was supposed to do. 

_Things changed when Sammy started getting trained dad. I don't know how, exactly, but something changed inside of me. I thought of how bad I felt inside, how brushed aside I felt, how I kept having to do better and how miserable I was at times. I didn't think it was fair – and it seemed to me no one should feel that way. I thought about all those people that you saved, those families that get to go on living their lives more or less intact – while your own family was trying to keep it together._

“You were the one keeping us together, Dean... not me, not Sammy... you're the one who was holding us together...” John swallows hard and keeps reading.

_I started thinking about hunting and what our lives would have been if there'd been a hunter in Lawrence the night mom died and he got the thing before it got into our house. I don't know if I still would have gotten cancer or not, but we could be living a life of perfect ignorance of the supernatural thanks to a total stranger who didn't want us to feel the way we do now. Granted, I don't know if many hunters think this way, but to me – to be a good hunter you can't think about yourself. It can't be about revenge, because that makes you lose sight of what's important. Another lesson I don't think you wanted me to know dad, and I'm not sure you wanted to teach to me. So, when I turned twelve, I did my best to stop thinking about myself and think only about the people who needed help. The people who were in danger. I'd sometimes ask myself – why me? And then thought: Why **not** me? I know what the pain is like – I don't want others feeling that way._

_You never did say what we would do after you killed the thing that killed mom. Keep hunting? Go back to normal life? I remember something I was told once about hunting, but I can't remember who it was..._

_Hunting is like Hotel California – you can check out any time you want, but you can never leave._

_I'm sorry I couldn't explain it to Sammy that way – I don't think he would have understood. I don't even think he knows who The Eagles are... I should tell you something else about Sammy – he thinks you don't love him. I've told him that you do, but he thinks you don't because you don't listen to him. Yeah, I know, he's a snot nosed kid who doesn't know what he's talking about._

_Still doesn't mean you shouldn't listen._

_Don't go thinking I hate you dad, because I don't – I love you very much and the only way I knew how to show that was by doing what you asked of me._

_I opened this letter telling you how sorry I am for dying – and now I look over what I've written, and I'm sorry for one more thing:_

_I'm sorry I didn't bring any of this up when I was alive._

_Dean_

_August 2, 1994_

John let the pages fall from his hands to the floor as he hunched over, the pain in his stomach has spread to his heart and even to his lungs as he took his face in his hands and sobs.

*

On the other side of the wall where John was weeping Sam was sleeping. Well, he was trying to sleep because someone was doing their best to wake him up and it was starting to piss him off. “Nn... go away.”

“Sammy, if you don't wake up, I'm gonna give you a noogie that you'll feel until you're twelve.”

“What?” He turned over and opened his eyes and stared. “Dean?”

“Yeah, squirt, it's me.” 

Sam blinks at the impossible sight sitting on his bed. It's unquestionably his brother, looking perfectly calm and happy. He's wearing a pair of cutoff shorts Sam's never seen before and oddly, that Led Zeppelin shirt Dean used to have before it got eaten by a washing machine somewhere in Colorado. “How?” He also can see his brother has a full head of hair – and it's a style similar to his and that Dean's giving off a bit of soft glow.

“Sammy, I can't stay very long.” He sighed. “I'm sorry I couldn't at least hang on until you and dad got to the hospital.”

In response, Sam did the one thing he's wanted to do for the past two months. He throws himself at his brother, hugging him for all he's worth.“Dean.. it's... I... I miss you.”

“I miss you too, shorty. Don't worry about me, I'm fine. But I'm worried about you and dad.” Dean returns the hug, although to Sam, it wasn't the bone crushing hugs he'd once given – but rather the gentle embraces he'd gone to after the leukemia started draining his health away.

“You're dead and you're still worried about _us_?” Sam couldn't believe it. “I'm dreaming this, aren't I?”

“Sort of... It's real but... you are dreaming.” Dean ruffled his brother's hair and pulled away.

“Dean... Dean I'm sorry... I didn't mean for you to get sick...”

“Don't start with that... I saw the other endings, Gabriel showed me... believe me when I say that this is the happy ending.” Dean's telling the truth – he's seen possible futures so terrifying, it's a good thing that nightmares are impossible in Heaven.

“Pastor Jim said that Gabriel told him he needed your help to stop the Apocalypse.” 

“Yeah, yeah he did.” He grinned. “And we did.”

“Wow.” Sam leaned back and hugged his pillow. “What's Heaven like?”

“Can't tell you that, Sammy.” Dean sighed. “But I do have something very, very important to tell you...”

*

John almost didn't hear the knock on his door as he let out a long sob and picked up the four sheets of paper on the floor and carefully put them away. When the knock repeated itself, he knew, just by the hesitancy in the sound that it was Sam. “I'm awake Sam, you can come in.”

Sam pushed the door of his father's room open, clutching the knob for support.

John stood up at the sight on his son's face. “Sammy, what's wrong?”

Sam swallowed hard, scarcely daring to voice what he's been told. “I saw Dean dad. Like two minutes ago... it was kind of like a dream but not really a dream...”

John knows the sort of dreams his son is talking about – and it wasn't unusual for the dead to try and contact the living in such a manner. He's never had one, but has heard plenty of talk. He nods and sits down on the bed, motioning for Sam to come closer. “It's okay – there's nothing wrong with that.”

“Dad?” Sam comes into the room and stands a few feet away from his father, worrying his bottom lip with front teeth. “He told me something... something I... I don't know if you're gonna believe or not...”

John frowns slightly. “What'd Dean tell you Sam?”

“A demon named Azazel killed mom. And an angel named Gabriel killed Azazel... because Dean asked him to.”

**

Another one of those periods of time rushing by happened. John wouldn't have noticed the time at all if he'd not watched the snow melt and the leaves return to the trees and then saw them change color. Finding out that the monster that killed Mary was dead had given him an odd sort of peace he'd not had in years. He'd thought about remaining a hunter, but then remembered the letter and how he'd basically been told off by a fifteen year old who understood what sort of person a hunter should be. John didn't think he'd ever understand it the same way Dean had. He knew he'd failed his oldest child – he'd turned the boy into an adult far to soon and not given one thought about it. But he knew that the letter had also been telling him something else: it wasn't to late for him and Sam. 

John still believes the hardest conversation he's ever had in his life was telling Sam about Kate and Adam. He was therefore stunned at his boy's reaction. Sam hadn't been angry, hurt or even surprised. He was actually rather enthusiastic about it. The first time the two boys met had been the day after Christmas. Sam, displaying a patience that he didn't think was possible, had spent several hours building a block city with his little brother and later read him a whole slew of picture books that made John dizzy just to look at. It would be some months later when Adam asked Sam where he learned to be such an awesome brother. Sam replied that he'd learned from the best, their big brother Dean and when Adam asked where Dean was, Sam told him that he'd gone to Heaven to stay with his mommy.

So it doesn't surprise John the next time they visit in January there's a picture Adam's drawn hanging on Kate's fridge of 'my family' that includes himself, Sam, Pastor Jim and Dean – who was up on a cloud while everyone else was on the ground.

It was on what should have been Dean's sixteenth birthday that John officially decided to stop being a hunter and try and start over. He and Sam still kept doors and windows salted and, with a little help from Bobby, devil's traps underneath rugs – because it never hurt to be prepared. There was one last move for the four Winchesters– to the city of Lansing, Michigan. Kate easily found a job at a hospital there and John found work at the Chevrolet Plant. He still wasn't entirely certain how his credit wasn't completely destroyed in the summer of '94 – but didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was just thankful that they could move on with their lives without to many things holding them to the past. 

Sam and Pastor Jim never told John about what Gabriel told them. Jim said that his father didn't need to know and Sam had been all to happy to keep it a secret. He put his trust in what Dean had told him – and also knew that Dean would want him to keep moving onward. So he did. He tried not to think about hunting, but just like his dad, he checked the salt lines in the rooms before he goes to bed. When Adam asks what the salt is for – Sam's told him a couple of things, ranging from keeping ants out in the summer to keeping out the cold in the winter. He's also convinced there's cosmic payback in his cards for all the _other_ questions his little brother loads him up with. True, there's not a day that goes by that he doesn't want Dean back, want it with all his heart and soul, but knows that deep down, if Dean had to lay down his life for his family or even total strangers, he would have done so. In a way, his brother's gotten the last laugh, cause how the hell do you top your brother in anything when your brother helped save the frickin' world?

It's May and the snow's almost completely melted – that was another thing for Sam to get used to – seeing snow on the ground on his birthday. But that was weeks ago and now he, Kate and dad have all headed to Adam's school for the Kindergarten Graduation. Even though he'll go into first grade in the same school, there still is some light fanfare and ceremony. It's a new experience for all of the family - and quite frankly, Sam thinks it's sort of cute to see a bunch of five and six year olds looking like they're on their way to a birthday party or something all lined up on the stage of Cumberland Elementary (he's a seventh grader at C.W. Otto Middle) while parents and grandparents take pictures and some of them even cry. He supposed the really rather adorable thing is when each boy or girl's name is called they come up to the front of the stage and announce to all the parents what they're going to be when they grow up. About half the girls want to be veterinarians or actresses – and one very plucky looking one with a giant bow in her hair says she's going to be president. Some of the boys, however, are a little vague. One wants to be a cowboy, the next one an astronaut. Adam's near the end and when his name is called, he comes up the the microphone with the same determined attitude the girl who wants to be president had. He casts a beaming smile at his teacher when his name is called – a smile that makes Sam think of Dean.

“And what are you going to be when you grow up, Adam?”

The tow-headed blond boy looks out over the crowd of parents, including his own, who don't even know what his answer is going to be, because the only person he's told is his big brother Sam, who promised not to tell mommy and dad. “I'm gonna find the cure for cancer.”

Sam felt his dad grasp his hand at Adam's words and he returns the squeeze. He doesn't doubt his little brother's determination. He's seen it before – and Sam's already decided he wants to do something at least halfway exciting with his life. Maybe he should think about being a professional stunt double or something – because between his two brothers, both of whom are probably going to give more into this world than they'll ever get back, if nothing else, he might do something that will make someone say - _Did you see that? That was awesome!_ If all else failed, he could become a computer animator or something – I mean, after _Jurassic Park_ who _knew_ what they could do in another couple of years?  
**

Dean's new favorite activity put two things together – standing in the ocean and reading. True, he probably would have laughed at anyone he ever saw doing this on Earth, but now... he's actually starting to let himself relax and, as it's intended for you to do, enjoy the afterlife. He's still not to big into hanging out with a lot of the kids running around in this Heaven – but then, that's also normal. It'd been his imagination to see the packs of kids and assume they were all in some little club he couldn't join – they, just like him, had all died way to soon and well, dying in the middle of puberty was really kind of weird. So no one hated each other and no one had any of these bouts of not speaking to one another, they just did what they enjoyed doing – and every now and then, they all got together for a game of baseball. He's not the only one who stands in the water and reads either – and with all the time in the universe, it doesn't matter how long it takes him to read.

“Excuse me.” A voice calls from behind him and Dean turns.

“Yeah?” He looks over at the girl standing just on the outskirts of the wet sand, looking rather nervous. She looks wholly out of place for the beach – she'd dressed in expensive looking jeans and an even more expensive looking sweater.

“Is the water cold?” Her voice has an oddly clipped sound to it – sort of like the Australian kids do, but it's more proper sounding.

“No, it's not cold... it's like the perfect bath temperature.” He turns back to his book as the girl crouches down to remove her shoes and socks and roll up her pant legs. A minute later, she's standing in the water next to him. 

“I was not expecting this... I was thinking white robes and lots of singing....” She rubbed her nose and pushed her hair out of her face. Dean noted she'd also left her sweater lying on the sand behind them, revealing a small green tank shirt. She's pretty cute. 

“Does that sound like a fun thing to do forever?” He looked up from his book.

“Not...really.” She looked around the area, towards the amusement park and beyond. “Do all the kids come here?”

“A lot of them do... it's kind of weird... you go into the library and you find these kids dressed like they're from the Eighteenth Century reading books next to kids dressed the way we are.” Dean tucked his book under his arm. “But I don't think there's anyone here who died younger than twelve or older than seventeen...”

“So the little kids go elsewhere...” She sighed and closed her eyes as the water sloshed over both their legs. “This is nice...” 

“Say, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” 

“What year is it? On Earth?”

“It's nineteen ninety-eight.” She rubbed her nose. “How long have you been here?”

“Four years.” Dean shrugged. “Wow... I would have only thought it would have been a year...”

The girl moved a little closer to him. “Good book?”

“Yeah...I found it at the library last time I was there...I didn't read much when I was alive... I'm actually starting to get addicted.”

“What is it?” 

“ _Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief..._ there's four more books in the series and a whole 'nother series after that.”

“I've never heard of that...” She put her hands in her back pockets, frowning. “And I read a lot...”

“That would probably be because....” Dean pulled the book out and flipped it to the copyright page. “It won't be published on Earth until two-thousand and five.”

Her eyes widened in response. “You mean the library's got every book that will ever be written?”

“Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“So it's got all seven of the _Harry Potter_ books?”

“Seven?” Dean frowned. “There's nine books in that series... but one's a prequel and one's about...”

“Don't tell me!” The girl gasped out. “I've only read the first!”

“I haven't read any of them, I just looked them over one time and decided to wait on 'em for a while. Not like I'm going to run out of time.”

“Brilliant.” She smiled. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't ask you... what's your name?”

“My name's Dean. You?”

The girl looked down for a moment, shuddering slightly. “I think I'd like to change my name... I... I don't want to have the name my parents gave me anymore.”

“That's not a problem... nearly everyone around here's got a nickname anyway. Only reason I sometimes use my surname, Winchester – is to distinguish me from the rest of the Deans that are running around here.”

The girl smiled. “All right then... It's very nice to meet you, Dean Winchester. My name is Bela. Bela Talbot.”

“It's nice to meet you, Bela. Welcome to Heaven.”


End file.
